


all these love lines are taking shape

by bigstarkenergy



Series: the world will turn and we'll grow, we'll learn [2]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics), Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Developing Relationship, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Endearments, Established Relationship, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Jealousy, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Miscommunication, Nicknames
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-12
Updated: 2020-06-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:14:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24677491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigstarkenergy/pseuds/bigstarkenergy
Summary: Clark's stare drops as soon as he sees the flowers, his expression shifting towards something Bruce would call both confusion and endearment."Are those-" Clark pauses, eyes flickering back up to meet Bruce's. "You brought me roses?"(They're not so good at the whole relationship thing-but they're trying. And that's what counts, right?)
Relationships: Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne
Series: the world will turn and we'll grow, we'll learn [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1661812
Comments: 40
Kudos: 329





	all these love lines are taking shape

**Author's Note:**

> title is from "little light" by lewis watson, which is honestly, such a lovely, perfect song about figuring things out and falling in love.

"The problem isn't that you got hurt, although I'm not exactly happy about that, Bruce," Clark says, his voice echoing off the recesses of the cave. "The problem is that you didn't tell me."  
  
Bruce simply looks at him, his eyes sharp and unreadable. Clark doesn't have the patience for this right now, not after finding out that Bruce got batted around like a toy by some slug creature and then thrown into a 50 story building. Not after the excruciating seconds where Clark had waited, breath caught in his throat, listening for Bruce's heartbeat.  
  
Bruce swallows, the small movement conspicuously loud in the silence. A few minutes pass of them staring at each other as Clark feels his anger sharpen itself into a finer and finer line. Bruce closes his eyes then, sighing, and that's when Clark feels his anger snap.  
  
"And you're not going to say anything. Great. Just so you know, Bruce," Clark says, fighting to keep his voice at a reasonable volume, "There isn't much point to this if all you want to do is have sex and make me guess half of what you don't say."  
  
Bruce doesn't say anything, sitting silently in his chair, even with bruises all along the planes of his body.  
  
Clark knows that if he stays any longer, he'll say or do something he'll regret. Something he won't be able to take back, and so he turns, walking up the stairs and flying back to Metropolis so fast he crosses the sound barrier.  
  
When he drops down on his couch, he gives in to the urge to press the heels of his palms to his eyes. It's been a long day, but the anger...it isn't new. Clark understands that Bruce is quite possibly the worst communicator in the world, and he'd understood that whatever they have, it wasn't going to be conventional. But he'd just hoped-  
  
Clark's not exactly sure what he'd hoped for. Maybe he'd just hoped that Bruce would at least try. Or, at the very least, make an effort to.  
  
He presses harder against his eyes, and slowly, the burning pressure eases up. He's not entirely sure whether the heat is from his laser vision or his tears.  
  
Clark's not sure which he wants it to be either.  
  
  


  
Bruce is objectively aware that he fucked up.  
  
(Even if he weren't, Alfred's silent judgement would be more than enough to make him aware of it.)  
  
He'd known that being in a...relationship with Clark would require adjustment of his daily schedule and perhaps, of his ordinary way of going about things.  
  
The problem is-  
  
Bruce hadn't thought of it.  
  
After he'd been checked out, and told that the only problem was bruised ribs and his whole body turning various shades of purple, green and black, Bruce had gone back to the cave to fix the damage done to the suit.  
  
It hadn't even occurred to him to let Clark know he was okay.  
  
(Which is, in all probability, what Clark had been so upset about.)  
  
Either way, Bruce knows that he needs to fix it. The only problem is, and the fact that he's admitting this is a feat, he isn't sure how.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Bruce spends the next day thinking about it. Clark hasn't texted him, hasn't spoken to him, and it's starting to get worrying.  
  
And despite his various other responsibilities, Bruce can't stop replaying what Clark had said, back in the cave.  
  
_There isn't much point to this if all you want to do is have sex and make me guess half of what you don't say._  
  
If Clark is operating on the assumption that sex without conversation is really what Bruce wants, then Bruce is possibly in deeper shit than he'd like.  
  
It isn't what he wants.  
  
If that was truly what Bruce wanted, he could've walked down the street, found someone willing to ignore the various bruises and scars on his body, and never be forced to talk about his feelings or change his habits.  
  
The mere thought of it is distinctly unappealing.  
  
Bruce, for reasons still not entirely apparent, likes Clark.  
  
(That's not the whole truth, he has reasons, it's just that the majority of them are reminiscent of a romantic comedy, and Bruce still has some, if not a lot, of dignity.)  
  
He's thinking about it when his assistant walks in and deposits another stack of paper on his desk, some of them sliding off in the process. As she picks them up, Bruce studies her.  
  
She's a nice person, from what he can tell. She doesn't get fed up with Bruce's bullshit, like so many of his other assistants, and she's funny too, in a dry, quiet sort of way.  
  
Bruce knows that she has a partner, he's heard her mention it a couple times. He debates asking for advice for a few seconds before deciding that she is probably one of the safest bets Bruce has. She won't tell anyone, if she values her job, she can't mock him, and she's one of the most normal people Bruce regularly interacts with.  
  
"Madeline," he says, watching as she looks at him from where she's sorting papers back into a neat pile. "Hypothetically, if you needed to fix a miscommunication error with someone, what would you do?"  
  
Madeline looks at him, her lips slanting in a polite smile. "Do you want me to send another fruit basket, sir?"  
  
Bruce waves a hand. "No, no, it's fine." Clark probably would like a fruit basket, but that wouldn't properly convey the message of "Hey, sorry I didn't tell you I wasn't dead, I forgot!" the way Bruce wants.  
  
"If I may, Mr. Wayne, I do have a suggestion?"  
  
Bruce raises an eyebrow.  
  
"If you're talking about something more personal," Madeline says knowingly, a smile tugging at her lips, "Flowers and an apology go a long way, in my experience."  
  
Bruce is momentarily shocked by how easy it was for her to read him, until he remembers that Clark has dropped by his office enough times for Madeline to remember him.  
  
Bruce stays silent for a few minutes while he thinks it over. Flowers and an apology is utterly mundane compared to what Clark deserves. On the other hand, Clark is from Kansas. Sweet and heartfelt is his bread and butter, literally.  
  
When Bruce looks back up, Madeline has gone back to her desk. He reaches over and presses the button on his phone, and immediately, her voice fills the room.  
  
"Something I can get for you, Mr. Wayne?"  
  
"Flowers, please. Red roses. Those are the right ones, I've been told."  
  
Even though Bruce can't see her, he knows that Madeline is smiling. "Can't go wrong with roses. I'll get those for you right away."  
  
"Right," Bruce adds, and then, as if it's an afterthought, "Thank you."  
  
Madeline smiles again, Bruce can sense it. "Glad I could be of help, Mr. Wayne."  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Bruce stands outside Clark's apartment, strategically going over what he's going to say. He's been standing here for 4 minutes now, give or take a few seconds. The bouquet of red roses in his hands is starting to seem like too much, if the stares from Clark's neighbors are any indication.  
  
But it's too late now to leave, and besides, Bruce isn't sure how else to do this. Just as Bruce finally summons up the courage to open the door, Clark's voice carries out into the hallway.  
  
"The doorknob works better if you use it, in my experience."  
  
Bruce suppresses a retort and a grin in favor of reaching out and opening the damn door. When it swings open, Clark's steady gaze meets him. He's still wearing his glasses, but he's in sweatpants and a college hoodie instead of his normal plaid.  
  
Even like this, levelling a stare at Bruce in ratty clothes, he's beautiful.  
  
Clark's stare drops as soon as he sees the flowers, his expression shifting towards something Bruce would call both confusion and endearment.  
  
"Are those-" Clark pauses, eyes flickering back up to meet Bruce's. "You brought me roses?"  
  
Bruce nods, holding them out for Clark to take.  
  
Clark takes them, absently rubbing a petal between his fingers. For some unfathomable reason, Bruce feels his brain catalogue the movement and store it, undoubtedly certain the memory will pop up again at an equally inopportune time.  
  
"Thank you," Clark says softly, turning to grab a vase from a cabinet and fill it with water. Clark's still on guard, but the tension is gone, the edges of it worn down.  
  
The apartment is silent as Clark tends to the flowers, placing them in a blue vase in the corner of his abysmally small kitchen counter.  
  
Only when Clark turns to face him does Bruce begin to speak.  
  
"I'm sorry for not telling you about my injury. I didn't consider how it would affect you, and that was an oversight on my part. I'll be better about it in the future," Bruce recites, his heart pounding.  
  
"How many times did you rehearse that?" Clark asks, his face breaking into a grin.  
  
"Ten," Bruce reports grimly.  
  
"I could tell. Hello, Mr. Kent," Clark mocks, affecting a robotic tone, "I apologize for not telling you I wasn't dead. Sincerest regrets."  
  
Bruce allows himself the glimmer of a smile. "The impression is uncanny," he says drily.  
  
Clark grins back at him for a moment before his smile softens, raising a hand to cup Bruce's jaw and stepping in close. "Thank you," he repeats, his voice tender.  
  
Bruce looks into his eyes and feels caught, irreparably seen. "No need to thank me again," he quips, his tone thankfully not betraying his emotional turmoil. "The roses didn't cost that much."  
  
Clark throws his head back and laughs, the sound echoing off the walls. "You're ridiculous," he teases, his eyes shining. "You know what I meant."  
  
Bruce does know what he meant. And he's glad, immeasurably glad that Clark seems willing to set this all behind them, to move on, but there's one more thing he needs to clarify.  
  
"Clark," he says, bringing his own hand up to hold Clark's where it rests on his face, "I don't want to not talk and have casual sex."  
  
Clark's smile slips, and something like regret passes over his face. "I know. I know, and I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that."  
  
Bruce is glad to hear it.  
  
Clark brings his other hand up to cup Bruce's face -which used to send small pinpricks of terror through Bruce, a god, cradling his jaw- and leans forward.  
  
Bruce meets him halfway in a short, soft kiss that was possibly meant to be heated but instead reads, loud and clear: _I'm not going anywhere._  
  
Clark pulls back, smiling softly, and the ache in Bruce's chest is so bright he can hardly stand it, leaning in to tuck his face into the crook of Clark's neck instead. They stand there, in the middle of Clark's tiny apartment, as Bruce breathes in the scent of his cheap aftershave and hopes to god that Clark isn't listening to his heart pound.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
"Hey."  
  
"You called."  
  
"You asked me to."  
  
"Yeah, I know. I just-" Clark laughs, low and rich. "I guess I just didn't expect it."  
  
Bruce gazes out of his window, imagining Clark back in Metropolis, lying on his bed. It's been a long time since he's called someone without a purpose.  
  
"How's Japan?" Clark breaks the silence, his voice loud in the quiet of the morning.  
  
"It's...pretty," Bruce eventually says, brutally aware that he's fucking this all up.  
  
"I've been there, once."  
  
"Oh?"  
  
"Yeah, but I didn't get to see much of it. Earthquake, that kind of thing."  
  
Bruce nods, watching his reflection in the window. It feels odd, to talk to Clark like this, to miss him so acutely. It's a familiar sensation, but in a situation Bruce isn't used to. Normally, missing people involves a certain level of grief, the ache that comes with loss that lasts.  
  
But Clark isn't dead, he's just halfway across the world.  
  
"Maybe we should come here sometime," Bruce offers, feeling unsure.  
  
"Like a vacation?"  
  
"Apparently."  
  
Clark smiles, Bruce can hear it. "I'd like that."  
  
Bruce smiles along with him, watching the sun rise along the crest of a few distant mountains. It's strange, being tethered to someone so out of reach.  
  
Strange, Bruce finds, but welcome, nonetheless.  
  
On the other end of the line, Clark launches into some story about a dog he saw on his way home. Bruce leans against his headboard and smiles, letting Clark's voice wash over him, warm and fond.  
  
  
  
  


  
Clark settles his hands on Bruce's shoulders, his warmth soaking through the cotton of Bruce's shirt. "You always get this look on your face," he says, "Whenever you're upset."  
  
Bruce scowls, fighting the urge to lean into Clark.  
  
"It's kind of cute, in a way."  
  
Bruce spins around in his chair, hoping that his face properly conveys his irritation.  
  
Clark laughs, moving so that he's standing between Bruce's legs. "Like that. You get this little pinched off look, like you're a kid solving a difficult puzzle."  
  
  
  


  
  
Clark wakes up at 5 AM, the sunlight just beginning to stream in through Bruce's ridiculous walls. For a man who values his privacy so much, you'd think he wouldn't live in a giant glass box.  
  
Either way, the smallest rays of sun are filtering through the trees, dancing over them both. Miraculously, Bruce is still asleep, facing Clark on his side. Clark smiles, watching the rise and fall of his shoulders, the way his hair has fallen over his face.  
  
It's been almost two months since they started this whole thing, and Clark is starting to feel more comfortable in their relationship. Not that he's taking it for granted; more that he knows what'll make Bruce frown, and more importantly, what'll make him laugh. Before, it always felt like they were tiptoeing on opposite sides of a line, waiting for the other to strike first. Now, it feels like they're slowly erasing the line, day by day.  
  
For instance, all Clark wants to do right now is reach over and brush a lock of hair off of Bruce's forehead. He is also now aware, from prior experience, that Bruce is quite possibly the lightest sleeper in the world, and that even the smallest touch will wake him. So Clark settles for turning over on his side, facing him.  
  
Bruce sleeps on, the light coming up gradually through the room. Eventually, he starts to come awake, his breaths growing more frequent, his heartbeat picking up. Clark watches, feeling impossibly happy, like the sun is shining on his soul.  
  
Bruce opens his eyes after a few minutes, the hints of a smile gracing his face when he sees Clark. Clark smiles back, thanking whatever higher powers that be for this moment. A year, or even a few months ago, Clark would've never imagined this. But here he is, waking up next to Bruce, confident in the knowledge that there'll be more days like this to come.  
  
Clark reaches up to push the lock of hair off Bruce's face, laughing when Bruce blinks, surprised at the gesture.  
  
  


  
  
Clark knows he shouldn't. But the video is right there, and he can't help it. When it starts playing, Clark can see Bruce kneeling in the suit, a projection of Clark laid out in front of him, behind layers of glass.  
  
The fake Clark is writhing in pain, sweating in the acidic green glow of Kryptonite. Bruce is looking up at the figure in the corner, his jaw clenched tighter than Clark has ever seen it.  
  
"Let him go," he growls, his voice dark as tar.  
  
Clark watches the rest of the video with his heart in his throat. It only takes a few minutes for him to show up on the camera, the real him, that is. But on the video, Clark can see what he couldn't when it was actually happening.  
  
Like Bruce's face, and the way it collapses in relief when Clark bursts through the door. His hands, coming up to grab at Clark, to hold him, almost desperately. His body, the way he curls into Clark, letting himself be vulnerable for a moment.  
  
And Clark's own face, the way his relief is almost palpable.  
  
Clark stares at the paused video for a long time, looking at their intertwined bodies. Eventually, when the lump in his throat becomes too hard to swallow, he sets down the tablet and flies to the manor, heading straight to the cave, where he can hear Bruce's heartbeat, steady and strong.  
  
When he lands, feet almost noiselessly touching the ground, Bruce turns to look at him, confusion crossing over his features.  
  
"Clark," he says, eyebrows knitting together.  
  
"Bruce," Clark chokes out. He knows this is out of the blue, that there's no explanation for this. But he can't think, not when it feels like Bruce is still trapped in that fucking room, not when he can feel the panic of that day rising up in his chest.  
  
So Clark reaches out and wraps a hand around Bruce's neck, pulling him in for a desperate kiss. Bruce meets him, pushing forward into him as if he understands. As if he feels that panic, the need to know that he's okay.  
  
Eventually, they break apart, breathing heavily. Clark rests his forehead against Bruce's, revelling in the warmth coming off him.  
  
"Hi," he says, breathless.  
  
"Hi," Bruce replies drily. Clark closes his eyes and tucks his head into the crook of Bruce's shoulder, bringing his hands down to wrap around Bruce's waist.  
  
After a few seconds, he feels Bruce's arms come up around him, squeezing just as tightly.  
  
  
  


  
  
"Stop doing that."  
  
Bruce lifts an eyebrow, the expression just short of mocking. "Doing what?"  
  
"Acting like...like an asshole," Clark says, bubbling with pent-up frustration. Bruce has been acting weird ever since this event Clark got invited to last night. He'd been asking a couple of important figures a few questions, and Bruce had gone quiet, withdrawn.  
  
"I don't know what you're talking about, Clark."  
  
Clark snorts, stepping into Bruce's space. "Yes you do, Bruce. You've been moody since yesterday. What's wrong? You're supposed to talk to me about these things."  
  
Bruce neatly steps away from him, Clark's hand falling from his face. "I'm going to bed," he says, which is a total lie, Clark can tell. "Goodnight, Clark."  
  
  
  


  
  
“I don’t get it,” Clark rants. “He won’t talk to me, but he won’t move past it, it’s like he doesn’t even want to fix it. I don’t understand why he won’t just talk about whatever it is.”  
  
Barry shrugs. “I mean,” he says cautiously, “Bruce is Batman. I don’t think he’s very good at talking in general.”  
  
“I just wish he would tell me why he’s upset.”  
  
“Well, what were you doing?”  
  
“I was talking to Edward Hough about his newest acquisition.”  
  
“Edward Hough? The business athlete guy?” Barry asks incredulously.  
  
Clark frowns. “Yeah.”  
  
Barry takes a breath in, shaking his head, a smile crossing over his features. “Clark,” he says slowly, “Edward Hough could win People’s Magazine Sexist Man Alive in his sleep, he’s a business mogul, and you’re seriously wondering why Bruce is upset?”  
  
Clark’s eyes widen. “You think Bruce is _jealous_ ?”  
  
Barry laughs. “Clark, if you were talking to Edward Hough, _I_ would be jealous, and I’m not even your boyfriend.”  
  
Clark leans back against the closest wall, letting his head hit it hard enough to feel it. Clark hadn’t ever considered the idea that Bruce, of all people, could get jealous. For starters, he’s Bruce fucking Wayne. Clark can remember being in high school and hearing girls talk about him at a party, or dating some supermodel. Of course, they weren’t exactly talking about _him_ so much as his hair, or other choice body parts, but Clark tried to tune most of that out, back then.  
  
Even when he hadn’t known Bruce, Clark had always been aware of him, in a way that became a lot clearer after his sophomore year of college. And then he had gotten to know him, more and more, and he has his flaws, but he’s still easily the most impressive person Clark knows.  
  
He’s fucking Batman. And more than that, he’s one of the smartest people Clark has ever met. All his equipment, the tech at Wayne Industries, Bruce has a hand in it. He cares about Gotham so fiercely that Clark can’t even begin to comprehend that level of devotion, and he might be bad at saying it, but Clark doesn’t doubt that Bruce cares about him. He’s funny too, which is maybe the biggest surprise, and charming, sometimes, in a way that’s all him. He’s fascinating, and Clark hadn’t ever thought of saying it, because it seems obvious, the way Bruce seems to be adept at all things.  
  
Clark lifts his head and meets Barry’s eyes. Barry shrugs, looking sympathetic. “Sorry, dude.”  
  
“Well,” Clark says, heartfelt, “Shit.”  
  
  


  
  
  
They don’t talk about it for a couple days, until Clark can’t take the tension that’s been building between them. One of Clark’s favorite things about Bruce is that it’s easy to talk to him. Or-well, not easy, per se. Comfortable would be a more accurate descriptor. Clark doesn’t have to be Superman or Clark Kent, he just has to be him. There aren’t any lies. There’s no need for him to play a role, or to try to be something he’s not.  
  
Normally, at least.  
  
“Bruce,” Clark says, because that’s always a good start.  
  
Bruce glances up at him, his head buried in a tablet. They’re in the cave, working quietly side by side. Well, Bruce is working. For the most part, Clark’s been trying to figure out how to have this exact conversation.  
  
“Can we talk about what happened the other night?” Clark asks, feeling his hands grow clammy with sweat. Kryptonians don’t sweat, even under extreme heat, but Clark was raised by humans, and nerves is a learned trait, apparently. “At the dinner,” he clarifies, wiping his palms against his thighs.  
  
“About?”  
  
Clark scoots his chair a bit closer. “You were upset,” he says, watching Bruce’s face. “I can tell, Bruce, c’mon.”  
  
Bruce doesn’t so much as blink. “It’s not a problem, Clark. I’m fine.”  
  
Clark huffs out a breath. “You remember a few weeks ago, right? The whole not-talking conversation? You bought me flowers? Any of that ringing a bell?”  
  
Bruce gives him a stare that easily translates to: _I don’t see the relevance_ .  
  
“This is one of those things, Bruce. That normally, people talk about.”  
  
“You want to talk about my feelings.” Bruce says the word feelings as if it’s foreign, worthy of derision.  
  
“No,” Clark says. “I want to talk about what _caused_ your feelings.”  
  
Bruce raises an eyebrow. “That’s barely a distinction, Clark.”  
  
“Well, I’m making it anyway.”  
  
Bruce snorts, an almost laugh.  
  
“You know,” Clark says after a moment’s silence, “I didn’t realize I wasn’t exactly straight until my sophomore year of college. And it didn’t really change much, but it did explain one thing.”  
  
“Oh?” Bruce’s head is tilted, and there’s a faint smile tugging at his mouth.  
  
Clark looks down at his lap, unable to maintain eye contact. He can feel his face flushing despite his best efforts. “I was always...aware of you,” he says, his ears burning. “Even back in high school, when you were in the trashy tabloids kids read.”  
  
When Clark hazards a glance up, Bruce is smiling, a real, genuine smile, dangerously close to a smirk. “Shut up,” he says, swatting at Bruce’s arm.  
  
“I didn’t say anything,” Bruce defends.  
  
“I could hear what you were going to say.”  
  
"Telepathic now, are you?"  
  
Clark rolls his eyes, grinning. “No,” he says, “I just know you. And anyway-I had a point.”  
  
“I’m sure you’ll stumble on it eventually.”  
  
“You’re an ass,” Clark says, his hand still resting on Bruce’s arm.  
  
Bruce shrugs. “I plead the fifth.”  
  
“My point was,” Clark says exaggeratedly, “That I’ve been impressed by you for a long time, now.”  
  
Bruce’s face falls back into a careful state of neutrality.  
  
“And I know I’ve never told you, but-” Clark swallows, “You’re an impressive person, Bruce. You’re the CEO of one of the biggest companies in the world. And when you’re not doing that, you fight crime. My point is: I admire you, and I count myself lucky to know you.” Clark pauses, takes a steadying breath. “To be in a...relationship with you.”  
  
“Clark-” Bruce starts to say before Clark cuts him off.  
  
“And I know you probably don’t see it, but I can’t imagine a person who could compare to you.” Clark stops, sucking in a breath. It’s out there now, nothing he can do to take it back.  
  
After a few moments of silence, Bruce quietly says his name. Clark forces himself to look up, meeting his eyes.  
  
“You matter to me. And you’re right-the other night, it was easy to imagine that you would be...happy,” Bruce says carefully, “Without me in your life.”  
  
Clark opens his mouth to object, but Bruce stops him with a firm hand over his own.  
  
“You’re more than impressive, Clark,” Bruce says, his eyes intent. “It’s difficult to measure up to invulnerability. To be deserving of…” Bruce trails off, shaking his head minutely. When he speaks again, Clark can see glimmers of resolve and determination in his eyes. “To be deserving of this. You.”  
  
Clark can feel his eyes widening, and before he can stop himself, he reaches out, gripping the back of Bruce’s neck. “It isn’t about deserving, Bruce, Jesus.” And Clark knows it’s cliche, but he can’t help but blurt out: “I like you for you. Not for your bank account, or your company, or your status. I’d be happy if you were a farmer in Smallville. Bruce, I don’t care about any of that. You don’t have to _deserve_ me.”  
  
Bruce looks at him, his eyes huge and open, almost scared. “Clark,” he murmurs, soft and low.  
  
Clark makes an executive decision and cuts off the rest of whatever he was going to say by tugging him closer, their chairs squeaking against the floor. Bruce’s hands come up to grab at his shoulders, his face, almost desperately holding on. Clark nips gently at his lower lip, bringing his own hands up to frame Bruce’s face. Bruce winds a hand through his hair, his thumb resting near Clark’s pulse, rubbing small, miniscule circles. Clark kisses back, holding him close, pulling away only to let Bruce catch his breath. 

He lets his temple rest against Bruce’s forehead and runs his hands through his hair, breathing softly. After a moment, he feels the comedy of the situation sink in, and he can’t hold back the grin that follows.  
  
“I never took you for the jealous type,” he teases, almost a whisper.  
  
In response, Bruce growls and pulls him forward, effectively wiping away the rest of the jokes Clark was formulating.

  
  
  


The first time it happens, Bruce doesn’t pay much attention to it. After all, it is logistically sound, and a rather efficient solution to Clark becoming more accustomed to Bruce, as well as Batman. Both his names start with a B, and if shortening them to a single letter helps Clark protect his identity, Bruce has no complaints. 

So, he gets used to hearing “Hey, B, it’d be nice to have a hand on the south side of the building,” or “B, I think I hear another timer,” and anything else along those lines.

It’s only when it starts happening more and more that finally piques Bruce’s curiosity. 

“B,” Clark says, leaning against his kitchen counter, “I cannot go to your fancy party because, like I told you the last time you asked, I am covering a city hall meeting.”

Ignoring the unsatisfactory response, (Bruce will find a way to get Clark to come to that party, because, as he has discovered, one of the perks of having a partner is having someone to talk to who actually wants to hear what you say), Bruce tilts his head and considers Clark. “You do know that the entire house is safe?” he asks, just to be sure.

Clark gives him a puzzled look. “Yes.” 

“That there aren’t any bugs?”

“Yep.”

“Okay,” Bruce concedes. 

“Bruce,” Clark says slowly, “What’s this about?”

Bruce hesitates for a second before deciding that this conversation can’t possibly be any more hazardous than any of their previous ones. “B,” he says simply. “You keep calling me B.”

What Bruce is expecting is for Clark to offer up a sane, reasonable explanation, and for them to go back to Bruce trying to coax Clark into coming to the party. What Bruce doesn’t expect is for Clark to flush a dark shade of crimson, pink rising to his cheeks and neck.

“Uh,” Clark says eloquently, looking like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar, “I uh-”

Bruce raises an eyebrow. While this isn’t the reaction he expected, it is an interesting one.

“It’s sort of-” Clark stammers, “I’ve gotten used to-”

Bruce watches Clark struggle for few more seconds before Clark seems to come to a resigned decision. He moves from the kitchen to the couch, sitting facing Bruce. After he settles himself, he takes a few moments, gathering his thoughts. Bruce waits patiently. He’s become accustomed to this, waiting while Clark figures out the best way to say what he wants. Bruce hasn’t figured out yet if it’s one of Clark’s journalistic habits, or his unique way of communicating with Bruce and only him. Either way, Bruce doesn’t mind.

When Clark does speak, he looks at Bruce, his eyes piercing blue. “I don’t know if this is a Kansas thing,” he starts off, “But we have...endearments,” Clark says carefully, “That people call each other.”

Bruce nods, and Clark continues.

“So back when I was with Lois, I’d call her things like that, you know.” Clark stops and smiles sheepishly at him, rubbing the back of his neck. “Honey, sweetheart, babe.”

Bruce nods again, waiting for the conclusion that Clark seems to be leading up to.

“And I didn’t know if you’d feel comfortable with that, so I. I thought if I could make it a simpler, less embarrassing version, you might like it more.”

Bruce sits still for a second, processing all of that. “So,” he says slowly, “B stands for?”

Clark flushes even redder, glancing up and down from a thread he’s picking at on the couch. “Baby,” he says, practically mumbling the word.

Bruce can’t help but raise an eyebrow. “Baby,” he repeats, wondering if this is, in fact, his life. He distinctly remembers a thought about being a seventeen year old getting asked to prom when this whole thing first started a few months ago. This feels vaguely reminiscent. 

“I know it’s not your normal style.” Clark is very insistently staring down at the couch, not meeting Bruce’s eyes. “I just thought it’d be nice.”

Bruce looks at Clark and sees his flush, his nervous picking at the couch. He’s _embarrassed_ , like he thinks Bruce is unhappy about this.

“Clark,” Bruce says, reaching out to catch one of Clark’s hands. “I’ve said this to a hundred different people before,” Bruce pauses, hearing his blood rush through his ears, “But you can call me whatever you’d like.”

Clark looks slowly up at him, a smile spreading across his face. “Yeah?” 

Bruce looks at him and wonders how the hell Clark ever got through life like this, so open and trusting of everyone and everything. 

“Yeah,” he murmurs, squeezing Clark’s hand in his own.

“Okay,” Clark says, a ridiculous grin plastered over his face. “Okay, B.”

  
  
  


“Arthur, I hate you.”

Arthur shrugs. “No skin off my back, kid.”

“You ate the last box of cereal! And then didn’t do anything about it!”

“There’s other food, dude.”

“First off, Cinnamon Toast Crunch is better than just ‘food,’ and secondly, you don’t get to call me dude after a betrayal like this.” Barry scowls at Arthur, both of them glaring at each other from across the table. Clark is leaning against the counter, watching it all unfold. 

It’s terrifying, sometimes, to think that the responsibility of protecting the world has fallen to men arguing over cereal, of all things. 

Clark is still watching in a form of dismayed entertainment when Bruce walks in, freshly showered. He barely acknowledges Clark as he pulls out two mugs, filling them both up with coffee before dumping sugar into one of them. Wordlessly, he passes the mug to Clark, sliding it along the counter.

“Thanks, B,” Clark murmurs, too soft for anyone else to hear.

Bruce doesn’t reply, but Clark glances up anyway. He’s opened another cabinet, covering his face, but an inch thick piece of wood is no match for X-ray vision. Behind the cabinet door, Clark can clearly see Bruce’s face, and the small, fond smile he’s directing at a plate. 

Clark grins back down at his own mug, feeling warmth bloom in his chest that has nothing to do with the coffee.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I still have never watched a Batman or Superman movie, or read a single comic book, so this entire thing is written based off of fanfic.
> 
> BIG shoutout to @talesofsuspenses here on Ao3 for letting me use her idea of B standing for baby. sakshi is awesome, and you should check out her fics.
> 
> this fic honestly means a lot to me. i think the idea of love as this shimmering, perfect feeling is really idiotic, and to me, love is more about the moments that maybe aren't so perfect. and i wanted to show clark and bruce trying to figure it all out. because love is confusing and complicated, and sometimes, it's okay to get it wrong. so. i hope this fic satisfies you and leaves you smiling.
> 
> kudos and comments make me really happy! (if you leave a comment, u own my heart)


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